After the End
by Black-Dragon-Warrior
Summary: Inspired by the Champion of Cyrodiil, growing up without an emperor, one boy decides to start on a journey that forever changes his life. Set after the Main Quest of Oblivion. M for language, violence and suggestive themes. More to come! R&R please
1. Prologue

[I do not own any of the people, places or things mentioned in this story. All credit goes to Bethesda and the developers of The Elder Scrolls games]

**Prologue**

Chaos, noise, destruction; it was all around. One small Dunmer, stuck right in the middle, clung to the body of his already dead father as the world seemed to end around him.

The impossible becoming possible; gates to Oblivion itself open inside the city, and Daedra of all sorts pouring out. Buildings exploded around the little dark elf named Orvayne as the hell-spawned creatures tear the city apart. When all seemed lost, Orvayn noticed the demons begin to converge on something... or rather, someone. Two men seemed to be carving his way through the masses of Daedra. One wearing the robes of the Emperor, the other a dark set of armor; ebony, it seemed. The first man was throwing powerful spells at the approaching enemies, and any that managed to avoid obliteration of that sort was soon cut down by the warrior's mighty blade.

It was one of the most amazing things Orvayn had ever seen; wave upon wave of horrible creatures, right from his nightmares, were attacking and being defeated as the two men made their way to the Temple of the One. And when it seemed they might actually win, the most horrible noise that young Dunmer had ever heard echoed through the city.

An Oblivion Gate, impossibly large, opened right in front of the Temple's entrance, and out stepped what could only be the Daedric Prince of Destruction himself; Mehrunes Dagon. Tall,so incredibly tall, and terrifying. Four arms, one wielding a huge sword, another; an even larger axe. A third had a set of claws extending from the wrist, and the fourth was flinging spells. Even through the massive chaos, the God instantly found what he was looking for; the two men fighting through Dagon's minions.

He let out a mighty roar, causing Orvayn to cover his ears and cry uncontrollably. Still, the two men pressed on, and made it into the Temple. Through his tears, Orvayn continued to watch as the Daedric Prince ripped the roof of the Temple away. And then... Orvayn couldn't believe his eyes. Could Mehrunes Dagon actually look.... afraid?

As if to answer, the rest of the Temple roof was blasted away as a flaming red dragon that could only be Akatosh himself, roared to life in front of the Daedra. The two gargantuan deities fought, each with a different assortment of attacks. When Akatosh took flight and plunged into Dagon, a hush fell over the whole city.

All watched as the final blows were exchanged, the Dragon lunging at the Daedra's neck and then breathing his Holy fire onto the demon, banishing him back to the depths of his own Hell. Orvayn couldn't believe it... against impossible odds, had they won? But, something was wrong. The avatar of his God breathed heavily, weakened from his battle. Akatosh surveyed his surroundings and looked pleased. And then, with the last of his energy, the mighty God threw his head back and let out a roar that shook the fondations of the city as the Dragon slowly petrified; forever a momunemt to their victory.

At that, Orvayn finally collapsed from exhaustion, fear, pain, and many other things a boy of his age shouldn't have been able to handle. In his dreams, he heard two names. Names that he would remember forever. The first was of the heroic emperor, Martin Semptim. Willingly sacrificing himself for the good of the Empire and all it's people. And the second was of the mighty warrior, the one they called the Champion of Cyrodiil. The one that saved them all.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Many years later...**

Orvayn awoke to sunlight streaming directly into his eyes. His blinked slowly, his pupils dilating slowly inside his blood red irises. He looked around slowly, trying to remember where he was, and how he got there. As he tried to roll out of bed, a dark-skinned arm draped across his bare chest. He looked over at the naked image of his previous night's encounter and chuckled lightly as the memories came back to him. He'd have to remember this one; she was good with her hands.

He gently removed her arm and sat up on the side of the bed, stretching and holding back a yawn. He didn't want to wake the woman whose name he could barely remember. Quiet as a whisper, he stood and slipped away from the bed, gathering his clothing from various points around the room. After a moment of panic, he found his precious silver longsword hanging from a chair in the corner. He dressed quietly, looking back at the beautiful dunmer still asleep as he strapped on his sword belt. He would definately have to remember this one.

Closing the door behind him, Orvayn made his way onto the streets of Skingrad. He wore an uncharacteristic smile; something just seemed right about today. He slowly walked down the street, not paying much attention to the people, and climbed the small staircase to the Two Sister's Lodge. Inside, Orvayn made his way downstairs and walked up to the bar, simply asking for a bottle of cheap wine and laying a few coins onto the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something that caught his attention. A Bosmer, oddly familiar, was sitting at a table a short distance away. Orvayn leaned closer to the bar tender.

"Do you know that Wood Elf there?" he asked her, in a hushed voice.

The orcish woman snorted nonchalantly "As if I find out the history of all my patrons. Go ask him yourself."

Orvayn laughed and shooked his head, moving to a table on the opposite side of the room from the odd Bosmer. As he quietly enjoyed his wine, he kept a careful eye on the other man, trying to discern anything he could about him. Well dressed, so he obviously had a bit of money. Some sort of longsword strapped to his side; Orvayn couldn't tell what kind it was, but the hilt and scabbard were both beautiful. The oddest thing about him though was his face. It wouldn't have been too noticable if not for the many scars covering it. This man had obviously seen his fair share of fighting.

Even as Orvayn studied the Wood Elf, he, in turn, was studying Orvayn as well. A slow smirk crossed his face as he seemed satisfied from what he had seen. The Bosmer finished his drink and stood slowly, one hand on his sword hilt. He made his way across the room and stood on the other side of Orvayn's table, looking him up and down slowly.

"Long, dark hair... those red eyes of a dunmer... well muscled... and that scar" the Bosmer grinned. "I do believe you are who I am looking for."

Orvayn smirked right back at the man defiantely. "Oh? And why would you be looking for little ol' me?"

"What, you don't remember me? I admit, you've never seen -me- before... but you did kill my brother. My twin brother, that is. So you should at least recognize him, in what you see in me"

"Hmmm... well to be honest, I have a pretty decent body count. Forgive me if I don't remember each person I've ended" Orvayn grinned at the man, calmly folding his hands under his chin.

"Dammnit, that's enough!" The Bosmer threw a chair aside, drew his sword and pointed it straight out ahead of him, in Orvyan's direction. "I tracked you down to avenge my brother, and now I'm here to do just that. Outside, now."

And with that, the Wood Elf marched off, upstairs and outside the bar. Orvayn just laughed and shook his head, slowly standing. He winked over at the bartender. "Wish me luck!" Still laughing, Orvayn made his way outside. Apparently, the Bosmer had enough time in his vendetta to draw a crowd, as one was already forming around the outside of the bar when Orvayn got there. As soon as Orvayn stood a bit down the street, the other elf flourished his blade. The rest of it was just as beautiful as the hilt: a deep, dark ebony, detailed in gold trim. It must have cost as much as a house.

"Draw your weapon!" The Bosmer shouted at him. "I, Elberond, will defeat you and restore the honor of my brother Pegaro!"

Orvayn slowly drew his silver longsword, holding it casually in his right hand. It was a fairly simple blade, pure silver with a few ornate carvings along the blade and pommel, the hilt wrapped in a light leather. As soon as Elberond caught sight of Orvayn's drawn weapon, he charged. His first attack was a feignt; a straight stab that came for Orvayn's chest, changing to a downward thrust at the last second. Skilled as the Bosmer's attack was, Orvayn could tell already that he was better. He sidestepped the thrust and slammed the flat of his blade against Elberond's, sending it into a crack between the cobblestones of the street. As Elberond tried to recover from the surprising parry, Orvayn spun around and kicked out the back of the elf's left knee, sending him down quickly. Recovering well, Elberond rolled forward, spinning around to face Orvayn with his weapon in a more defensive pose. Shouting some sort of Valenwood war-cry, he charged again, this time with a diagonal slash across Orvayn's chest. Orvayn ducked just enough, bringing up his sword to slide along Elberond's, slamming his hilt into Elberond's fist. He yelped and dropped his sword, which Orvayn kicked away, extending his own blade so the point rested just below Elberond's jugular vein.

"A fancy sword doesn't mean you're skilled. I'm sorry if you're upset about your brother, but you can't kill me just yet. Maybe with some more practice" Orvayn sheethed his sword and turned his back on Elberond, slowly walking away.

"This isn't over! Don't you dare turn your back on me!!" Elberond grabbed his sword and rushed at Orvayn again, abandoning all sense of technique and swinging wildly. Almost ghost-like, Orvayn ducked and dodged in between Elberond's swipes until he was right in the Bosmer's face, a hidden dagger from his boot in Elberond's gut.

"You had your chance. Bad choice on your part" Orvayn twisted his hand, finishing off Elberond's life, and pulled his dagger away, wiping the blood off on his shirt and returning the dagger to his boot. The crowd was silent as he walked away slowly. Trying to forget the fight, and remember the name of the woman from this morning, he didn't notice the guard until he nearly bumped into him. Another long week or so in jail... just what sort of 'hero' was he becoming?


End file.
